The Archway Children
by nightbird47
Summary: Some are condemened to short, hard childhoods.  Some to none at all.


The Archway Children

This story is dedicated to the children who pass though the City of Hope Shelter in Corona, California and their brothers and sisters in other places, who helped inspire this story

The boy hovered in the shadows cast by the curved wall of the passage way, eyes fixed on the large, rough hewn arch that filled the closed off end of the square. Pressing close to the dark wall behind him, he willed himself to be invisible.

He knew how to vanish. It had been the primary lesson of his upbringing.

Glints of light, betraying movement, danced in the somber square.

He waited, silently and patiently, skills borne in the shadows of the hallways of the empty rooms at home.

Slowly, the archway children forgot about the odd shadow and moved into the half-light of dusk.

He watched, measuring the differences.

They were little. Were they young, or were some older but with bodies shrunk by the reduced life they lived?

Some wore rags. Others covered themselves in the discarded clothes of the season's cleaning. A few dressed in the garments of well-off Cardassian children, only now a little old and dirty.

The best dressed ones looked quite pleased with themselves.

The boy felt his clothes, so new, so *proper*.

He saw no adults. Each time he passed he watched the archway children, but they were always alone. He hoped someone would return and take them home.

He'd run that day, bolting from the words he'd overheard while hiding from the storm in the sitting room. He'd run to the archway children, afraid and hopeful and lost.

Others passed through the square, neither seeing nor wanting to see. The children–and those hiding unseen–were simply blemishes in an orderly society. Some would drive them away. Others spared them a brief flash of pity.

He watched as everyone hurried past, running from the reminder of what might be.

Skirting the shadows, he edged closer. He had to know how the children spent their days. Lost in the crumbling recesses of the arch was an illusion of home. The smoke of fires drifted from the darkness. The smell of roasting food made him hungry.

He'd watched shadowy figures trap the vermin of his society so they might live.

Like the creatures they fed upon, they were despised. They were ignored and tolerated. But they were *there*, and none wanted to see the image of their own children in the faces should some day a question arise about the loyalty of the family to the state.

The boy tried to shut out the words.

"I should put you out," Mother's master had said.

He would abandon the unfathered child she had borne as well.

Melting into the harsh light of dusk, he drew closer. He could see others now; adults in the same assortment of rags and abandonments. A little joy touched him to know the children were not alone. But he understood. Those who passed by would *see* an adult. And they would be reminded.

Then, someone might banish them from the meager place they had carved out for themselves. So they hid, as did he.

He'd heard about how they survived. Sometimes they stole, or lived off the unwanted leavings of society. Or. they sold themselves for a meal or a bit of shelter for the night. But here and there were places they had made home.

They never disappeared. He watched everywhere he went, quick glances as he passed while towed away by those who did not notice.

Like the archway children, he was a boy, but no longer a child.

The Master had threatened to send him away before. But this time he was certain they'd be put out.

His little room and bed, his well laid out clothes, his plentiful meals teased at his mind. Would these meager children push him away?

He moved again, not as carefully, emboldened by the fear and the need to see *everything*.

Amid their ruined life, they were playing a game. It was rough and he could not make out any rules. But, fascinated, he could not look away.

Most of all, their laughter drew him close.

No one laughed or smiled at home. There was neither disobedience nor happiness. He had no words to understand what that was.

But their small bodies and worn clothes made him afraid.

Mother obeyed. He shrank into invisible space, always listening, always seeing a place to hide. Would Mother, some day, be forced to choose between her son and her master?

She had seen the archway children, too. He feared she would choose survival.

"I should send you away *now," the Master had repeated.

With those words, he had run. But he'd heard enough. He didn't know what he'd done to make Mother afraid, but the words were his fault.

He had walked from the shadows into the hazy light. Now he could see the whole game. One boy, a little taller than the rest, had flattened something under his arm. Dodging and doubling back in the small space, the others chased him, the smaller children in little bunches.

The boy yearned to play. For a heartbeat, he almost dashed after them, legs straining against a deep-seeded caution which held him back.

Then the target made a wrong turn. He was caught between two older boys and four little ones. All of them went down in a heap. After a brief struggle marked by flailing arms and legs, one of the smaller children emerged with a tangled knot of rags under her arm.

The winner was fast and agile and ducked under the taller boys trying to catch her.

The boy leaned towards them, following the girl with absolute fascination that shut out everything else.

But suddenly his view was blocked by one of the players. The archway boy stood calmly watching the interloper.

The boy's own fear met the archway boy's defiance. He backed into the shadow again, no longer violating their world.

He never defied anyone. He didn't dare. In a small way, he *envied* the street waif. He still watched their game. The children tumbled into the rough corners, but always picked themselves up without fuss.

Strength was important in his culture, and forbearance even more honored. At least the children belonged a little.

The archway children, who still claimed a measure of childhood, rolled and played their game. They saw, but did not see, the boy as was the course of all their days.

He was excluded. But tomorrow? Or perhaps the next time trouble came and the threat was repeated.

Then the spell was broken. Tolan, the master of the Riding Hounds, grabbed his arm. "Master Tain is much displeased. But I believe that he shall be relieved that you have been found."

Hope lived. The Master would not put out a boy he choose to rescue. Not this time. Mother would be angry. But she would welcome him back.

The boy let himself be led home. The archway children watched as he passed by their world.

Tain was waiting. He stood, tall and stern, and Garak never forgot that the man was also his master.

"You will not disobey me, boy. Perhaps you will have little time to entertain such thoughts from now on. I will be keeping you very busy."

The boy wondered if he was to be an apprentice or a slave.

"If you disobey me, I *will* put you out."

The boy knew how to humble himself without sacrificing all pride. Tain could not tolerate that.

He promised obedience. Then he was dismissed.

Mother was relieved. He knew she had been afraid and then grateful, but it was not his people's way to be open about such things.

He loved Mother. But the power to keep them safe, to banish the threat of the ragged life was entirely in the hands of Enabrain Tain.

It was a lesson Garak would never forget.

-finis-


End file.
